Caught
by GalaxyDancer
Summary: Nobody ever dreams of what would happen if Nny was arrested, but I'm just insane enough to sleep. Johnny's been arrested, and his way of dealing with it is... most Johnnylike.


Dear Die-ary...

"Being of unsound mind and questionably existent spirit, I write this - not in hopes of convincing other people of my sanity or reasons, but simply to write and enjoy it for the time being. Hopefully by the time I've finished, I will be on my way, finally, to an absolute death - one where I shall thrive in my afterlife and not be slung from Heaven to Hell and back by the morons running the dimensions of the dead. One where there's no such thing as pimples.

"It's nothing short of a miracle that they showed up on my doorstep one week ago and told me I was being arrested. For a moment, I just stood there, dumbfounded at my luck. But then I realized it was just another cruel joke that a higher being was playing on me. I shrugged just before disemboweling both of the officers, and then went back to my samich and favorite television program.

"However, a short four and a half hours later, an entire SWAT team was at my doorstep in place of the two dead bodies, and I don't think there's ever been a bigger smile on my face. I stepped out of the house and offered everybody muffins, but they turned them down. Those fucking morons probably wouldn't know good muffins if somebody shoved some down their throat and chocked them to death. ...That's not a bad idea, and I'll stow it away for later. I have other, more interesting details to get to in this excruciatingly short letter. I hate writing small to make it fit on one sheet of paper.

"The police went through the usual routine of shoving the alleged 'criminal' around, pinning him to the dirt with their feet, padding him down and hand-cuffing him before letting him step foot into the car. I was able to hide a muffin in my shoe. It was most uncomfortable - the way the police handled me, I mean; not the muffin. The muffin actually felt good. It _tasted_ even better when I put my foot behind me and took it out of my shoe, and then performed a rather unusual-looking act of reaching my head towards my hands and trying to eat it. Of course, I finally got it into my mouth, but half of the damn thing broke off! What the fuck is God's problem, tormenting me like this!

"Upon arriving at the police station, I was put into a cell with three other 'criminals'. The guard seemed confused as to why there were only two other people there when he walked by again, and even more confused when I and 'Chompy' were the only ones left. After I was the sole occupant of the cell, not counting three carcasses shoved into the mattress, I was moved to solitary confinement. It's really much better than being near other people who think you're just exactly like them because you are in the same room. That makes no more sense than a model duck collector walking into a restaurant and asking every person there what they think about model ducks. I hate ducks.

"I seem to digress too much in this letter, do I not?

"After a mere four days locked up by myself, passing the time by humming Ode to Joy, eating the remaining muffin crumbs in my shoe, and talking to myself for about seven hours straight each day, I was thrown into a courtroom and told to defend myself against the charges bestowed on me. No, literally - the guards threw me into the courtroom; they had interrupted my talking to myself, and I demanded to be left alone to finish my conversation, but they put me in shackles and tossed me before the judge. Of course, I _had_ to scrape my chin when I landed, making it very hard to talk.

"I think that, after about thirty solid minutes of listening to me get off the subject, the jury was about ready to commit suicide. I think one of them really did, or else she _accidentally_ shoved her clipboard into a place it obviously wouldn't fit. The judge stared blankly at the far wall the entire time. I even asked him if he wanted me to stop, but he didn't answer, so I went on with my story.

"'-they just don't understand why they're so stupid and useless! Once, I caught one behind the disgorge-inducing hang-out that calls itself the mall, about to harm my little pal Squee. I told you about him, right? He's the impressionable little kid who has the most RUDE FUCKING TEDDY BEAR IN THE HISTORY OF STUFFED VERMIN! So I conveniently had my 'Homicidal Teacher's kit' with me, and I gave Squee a lesson in robotics. It was Tuesday, so after I threw the monster's brain at the wall, I warned him about the aliens. You know, I think they're kind of stupid - a little messed up in the head, if you know what I mean. I had a chat with them one Tuesday evening, and they told me all about our 'interesting' way of life. They think girls are chickens! Literally! ...So I remembered what they said about weekly visits to Earth, and I figured since it was Tuesday, I'd make sure not to forgetzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZ...'

"It went on like that for a while, until the judge slammed down his gravel and declared that the jury was to decide on a verdict before the rest of the courtroom hanged themselves. Everybody took a fifteen-minute break and I had some Pringles, and then we came back and I was declared guilty. I think my smile was just a bit wider than the day the SWAT team showed up, though that will be up for debate later.

"I had the choice of my sentence, considering there was no lawyer insane enough to represent me. I could either serve seventeen consecutive life sentences in jail with the excuse that I was criminally insane, or I could get the death penalty. I'm pretty sure you know which choice I... well, chose. Heh. I'm very funny.

"They told me that there was a 'line' of sorts to wait in, and my place was reserved for three days after today. I heard on the radio that I'm the most talked about news subject since the one about hobos going even more insane due to a mysterious insanity-inducing comic. That kind of made me feel a little proud of my work, though not enough to last more than two and three quarters seconds. In no way am I really happy with any of this, except maybe the part about the movie based on 'my story' coming out in August, because... no, wait, I hate that, too. Hollywood directors will ruin whatever profit they could have made off of a movie about me because every actor will turn their nose up at playing the role of Johnny C. ...And even if they find someone, the person (hopefully a man) won't be able to act anything like me. In any case, my character will be completely murdered by sappy dialog due to crappy Lifetime writers.

"And so I sit here and write my 'Death Row Statement', or my DRS, as far as the police are concerned. I, most likely, will be the only one mad enough to read it all the way through without throwing up or clawing my eyes out with hotdogs.

"There's really nothing left to say but a final statement, which I really hate doing but know it will be the only thing sane enough to read on the news two minutes after my death. And that final statement shall be this: 'My name was Johnny C. and I really hated my life. I really don't know exactly what went wrong or at what time in my life or where, but I know that something did and I can't change that. People selfish enough to not appreciate the lives of others don't deserve to live. People stupid enough to have expressed this lack of appreciation in my direction ended up dead or mutilated or both. I'm not really sorry for what I did, because, in my eyes, they deserved what I gave. My name was Johnny C. and it still is, so fuck the messed up world.'"

That was what I wrote an hour ago, and shoved into my shoe in place of my beloved muffin.

However, it was selfish of _me_ to expect anything as forgiving as actual death. The guard conveniently had a heart attack and fell on the floor, and his keys happened to slide right up to the bars. They also provided the perfect tool for taking out the twenty-four-man army waiting for me, should I escape. I was rather disappointed at their lack of experience handling a crazy person with keys.

And now I'm home again, sitting on my couch and drowning my sorrows in individually-packaged Peach Puff Pies as I watch reruns of my "amazing escape" on every news channel. Nobody understands how the police could have let me walk out of the prison without so much as a second glance, and that "nobody" includes me. Reverend Meat had been listening to something he considers music, and his one-man celebration was instantly shot down the moment I walked through my front door.

I can't believe I grabbed my Die-ary and wrote all of this down instead of just shoving more Peach Puff Pies into my mouth. That reminds me... I'll have to go back to the police station tomorrow and give the arresting officers a taste of my cooking. Thank God for Betty Crack-head muffin mix.


End file.
